Perspectives
by Feisty.Green.Snake
Summary: Geralt has been suffering from the memory of Aryan La Valette's death. He ponders mostly on why the La Valette heir had kissed him, and why had he liked it? But as the Witcher stumbles across Flotsam and meets a band of Scoia'taels and their leader, he realises that sometimes the past doesn't matter – it's the future that counts.
1. Of Dangerous Deeds and Pasts

**Warnings**: Please be aware that this fan-fiction will contain profanities, mild sexual content, many bloody battles, character deaths, and an overly obsessive usage of semi-colons and 'big' words.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Witcher series. This piece of fiction is being written for merely entertainment purposes.

Rated: **T**

A/N: All right, this is just a one off. There will be another chapter added onto this one, but on the whole this short fanfiction has been written and posted up because there is a sore lacking in slash fiction for Geralt of Riv. I always get irritated by companies when they produce characters that are strictly what the companies desire; in other words, oh, how lovely – you can change Geralt's clothes and hair, but not his personality or sexual interests. Nope, let's have him copulate with whores and mages, but not with men. Honestly, there isn't one gay character in the series.  
In any case, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it; and if anyone decides to review this or message me, please do so about the plotline, character, or possible errors that I may have overlooked. I've no desire to argue politics over the legality of homosexuality.

_Summary:__ Geralt has been suffering from the memory of Aryan La Valette's death. He ponders mostly on why the La Valette heir had kissed him, and why it had seemed good? But as the Witcher stumbles across Flotsam and meets a band of Scoia'tael and their leader, he realises that sometimes that the past doesn't matter – it's the future that counts._

**Chapter One: Of Dangerous Deeds and Pasts**

"Second door on the left – that's the oil store."

Geralt gritted his teeth and aided the baron's son towards the door. The guards all lay unconscious around him; their situation, although safe from onlookers, remained tense.

Aryan stepped away from his grip once they entered through the door. He limped forwards and, with two palms, pressed in a particular stone on the wall. Aryan backed away as the stonewall slid back and revealed a hidden passageway.

"There's your way out, Geralt. It'll take you straight to the docks," informed Aryan, even now acting in a formal attitude. "I thank you for your aid in getting me here."

"Come with me," urged Geralt, noting that the La Valette was now expecting him to leave. "There's nothing you can do here."

"I've more to do now than ever before."

"Alone?" asked Geralt, with a single perked eyebrow.

"I need no one's aid for what I aim to accomplish," he grated through beaten, bloody lips. He was standing, although not without limping as he snatched up a torch from the wall. "I'd run were I you, Geralt – and fast."

Geralt clenched his fists.

"Is that your final word?" he asked lightly. "You could escape, attempt to free your siblings from the nobles' clutches. There are other options than dying here."

La Valette latched two fingers onto his breeches and pulled Geralt forwards. Their bloodied chests slapped against one another, and Geralt knew his mouth had fallen slightly agape in shock.

"You know, they got one thing wrong when they tortured me below," he muttered, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's that, I would not have ploughed any woman in all the world, let alone my own mother. My tastes are…different."

"But you'll die here and allow them to sully your name with that false gossip?"

He chortled. "I think not, Geralt of Rivia."

Aryan La Valette's lips crushed against his own, and Geralt instantly dropped the black jackhammer that he had been incapacitating the guards with. He had experienced many a kiss in his time, most of all he could recall were from Triss Merigold, but this was something different.

As the baron's lips bit and suckled his lower lip, Geralt groaned, tasting the metallic and roughness of Aryan's lips. The La Valette heir wrapped his free hand into Geralt's white hair, gripping it tightly and tugging at the bound knot to make the witcher moan.

Geralt rounded his bloodied hands over the man's skin, feeling him flinch in the most wounded places and yet remain evidently interested. Their movements were heated, quick and angry, but all too soon, La Valette pulled away, unhooking his fingers from the hooks of Geralt's breeches and stepping back.

"Farewell, witcher," the man whispered.

Aryan tossed the torch onto an oil barrel, and Geralt skirted from his blue eyes toward the passageway that led hopefully to the exit.

In truth, he didn't know why he ran. A combination of shock, survival instinct and anger possibly, but also likely fear. As he ran from down the passageway, laughter filled his eardrums, though even that died away soon enough.

His legs stumbled against rock, his body ached from the torture earlier, but he kept running. Witchers had an unnatural strength, an unnatural capability to ignore pain for days and yet still live.

But as the passage's walls caved in behind him all at once with a mighty smash, and only loose rocks crumbling around him could be heard, Geralt turned around. He wanted to burn through the rocks, to go back for the strange eldest La Valette, but he knew it would be in vain.

Against his racing heart's judgement, Geralt drew open the prison's door and left the smoking passage, which stunk of burnt oil and dust. He scarcely even took notice of the Officer guard ahead, and when he met Triss and Vernon at the docks, he only told them the necessary details.

After all, he could barely remember his past life. Why should he inform them of his sexual exploits? Or even of Aryan, who was now, by all accounts, a dead man?

But then, when Vernon asked after why he had taken so long and needed to raise the castle's alarm, Geralt could find no quick reason to avoid speaking of Aryan La Valette.

"I ran into a hangman who was torturing Aryan La Valette and a scribe attempting to persuade him into confessing of having incestuous relations with his mother," he murmured. "I rescued La Valette, but found that he had his own agenda. Aryan torched the oil store inside."

"Those sons of bitches," spat Triss. "They're trying to undermine Aryan's siblings their right to rule."

Geralt spent the journey listening to Triss talk of politics and kissing her lightly, more out of routine than anything else. He was only thankful that Vernon was aboard; the man, for all his protocols, was also brazenly honest and could be counted on to talk without hidden agendas.

/***\

They arrived on the edges of Flotsam, among the watery muck of its outside forest. Geralt's mind was still reeling from Triss' tale about his past life, his forgotten life, of Yennefer and his unexpected child.

Still, he couldn't dwell on his thoughts. As Vernon Roche called his name out from the shores, he jumped over the ship's wooden barrier into the watery muck below.

"So who does this forest belong to," asked Roche, glancing toward Triss as they walked.

She sighed. "I don't know. Ioverth, maybe?"

They tossed information back and forth, until the playing of a flute, sweet and light to the ear, breached their ears. Geralt observed Vernon Roche grab a dagger from his waist.

"I smell an elf," he muttered darkly.

The rounded a corner, avoiding a rock that had moss and roots overgrown over it, and Geralt spotted instantly the figure sat upon a tree that had been timbered down. It was positioned over two foreboding rocks, providing the figure with an excellent view of anyone who needed to pass underneath to proceed onwards.

As they neared, Roche became more agitated. His steps quickened, and Geralt spotted that the figure was actually a male elf, whose face seemed half-covered by some red-tinted fabric. The elf had been the one playing the flute, and as Roche neared he stopped, raised himself to his feet, and smirked.

Roche sneered, "That's –"

"Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian King," addressed the elf. "Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Twice decorated for valour on the field on battle…"

The elf was clapping mockingly, and grinning from beneath the red fabric.

"Ioverth – a regular son of a whore!" spat Roche, with a pointed glove towards him.

"I've long awaited our meeting. Laid plans, set traps…and now you appear in my forest of your own volition."

Roche scoffed. "You added the man who slew my king…"

"King or beggar, what's the difference?" seethed Ioverth, leaning over the log's edge. "One dh'oine less."

Geralt gritted his teeth. The Squirrel was beginning to grate on his nerves, which had been running high ever since his escape from the La Valette's prison.

"Know any spells?" he quietly whispered to Triss.

"A few, but I'll need some time," she murmured. "Stall him."

He turned back to the elf, and murmured, "…I'll try."

"Climb down and we'll finish this," growled Roche, who appeared not to have heard an inkling of their conversation. "One on one, Ioverth, I await!"

Ioverth laughed. "You're a man without honour, Vernon Roche. An insect I'll not duel, but one that I will crush."

"Seems like you spot the same old elven drivel," called Geralt, motioning towards him with his palms outspread.

The elf's eyes trailed from Roche onto him, as if had only just noticed that Geralt was standing there. Perhaps Roche and the elf's past had truly been that affecting…

"What do you mean, witcher?" he spat.

Geralt stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal himself.

"I've seen your kind before. Proud Aen Seidhe sneaking around forests. Helpless, yet masking that with acts of increasing cruelty."

"I helped kill Roche's king, would you call that helpless?" he growled, leaning forward again. "Or would you call me a terrorist instead? No one will grant us our freedom, witcher. We must win it for ourselves."

"You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask the obvious truth," snapped Geralt.

"Obvious, you say?"

"This is not about race or freedom, or even vengeance, you're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you," he continued on, noting that Ioverth's eyes were still fixated on him. "They may were a crown, carry a magic wand, or even lead a guild…"

"Just be sure of this, it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once, now someone new does. Am I wrong?"

"Those days are gone…No one will ever use the Scoia'tael again."

"Who are you addressing – me, yourself, or the archers up in those trees?" Geralt pointed to the right, where elves and dwarves lay in the trees, with arrows pinned on them. He looked back towards Triss. "Now, Triss…"

Triss murmured words beneath her breath and a force shield, which transformed the arrows into butterflies. Geralt snorted, and turned again to face her.

"That ought to discourage them," he murmured lightly, but frowned when she appeared light on her feet, her eyes drifting upwards to the sky and her nose beginning to bleed. "Triss, are you all right?"

"Lovely…"

Triss fainted, and Geralt only just managed to catch her before her body hit the sodden ground.

"Here, you're a witcher," voiced Roche, as he sheathed his sword. "Come on, you're better with a sword. I'll carry her."

"You're sure?" asked Geralt, training his eyes onto the man as he swept her up over his shoulder.

"Certain," he answered briskly, cutting Geralt short. "Just keep them off us."

"Hey, who's holding me? Is that you, Roche?"

"Yeah, and you're spent, so we've no more butterflies," he snickered, before lifting her higher onto his shoulder for balance. "Just hold on and we'll get to Flotsam. Sod these archers."

"I'm not a sack of flour, you arse," she grated, beating his back lightly with her fists. "I'm a woman."

"I noticed, Merigold. I noticed."

Geralt shook his head, and battered down a coming elf. He could still feel eyes trained on them from the trees above; he betted that their Scoia'tael leader was even still watching, waiting for them to die. Well, Geralt wasn't about to give anyone that satisfaction, let alone a pompous Squirrel.

As they reached Flotsam, Geralt turned and eyed the last of the squirrels retreating back into the forest. He spotted Ioverth and waved a hand mockingly into the air, whilst adorning a small smirk on his lips. The elf sneered and turned away, much to Geralt's silent humour.

It seemed that already their stay in Flotsam was going to be interesting, if nothing else.


	2. Interrupting Executions & Ratty Ranting

**Warnings**: Please be aware that this fan-fiction will contain profanities, mild sexual content, many bloody battles, character deaths, and an overly obsessive usage of semi-colons and 'big' words.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Witcher series. This piece of fiction is being written for merely entertainment purposes.

Rated: **T**

A/N: Second chapter, and I bet you can all guess where this is leading up to. Well, you're likely right. I rarely ever take the humans' side in Witcher 2 – I've only ever done so for the achievements, plain and simple. I hate the humans, Vernon Roche and Loredo, all of them. The only likeable one I find is Triss. But in any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I certainly found writing Dandelion entertaining ;)

_Summary:__ Geralt has been suffering from the memory of Aryan La Valette's death. He ponders mostly on why the La Valette heir had kissed him, and why it had been so good? But as the Witcher stumbles across Flotsam and meets the Squirrels' leader, he realises that sometimes the past doesn't need to be remembered. It's the future what counts…_

**_The Dungeons of La Vallettes_**

**Chapter Two: Interrupting Executions and Ratty Ranting**

"Listen here," shouted Loredo, as he paced about the gallows' deck. "You may have heard rumours of the tragic events that conspired during the side of La Valette castle.

He stopped, and stared down at the crowd. Loredo was certainly a crowd player, Geralt reasoned mindfully.

"Sadly, they are true. King Foltest is dead," he continued. "It's likely the Scoia'tael had a hand in this heinous murder. So you see, none of you can feel safe."

Geralt scowled, crossing his arms. He wondered how this Bernard Loredo knew that the Scoia'tael had been present during the siege; wondered where he was taking this speech.

"That is why today, wagons with armaments will roll out into Flotsam's streets. I hereby declare a state of emergency," he called, not pausing even for the people's surprised gasps. "Await orders, prepare to fight, and ready yourselves to avenge your fallen king. Now disperse, go to your homes!"

The gathering of men and women, who had come to see a hanging, slowly departed from the square. Geralt stepped forward as Loredo turned back to face him.

"What about Zoltan and Dandelion?"

"They'll not hang for now," he muttered, bringing a hand to rub his jaw. "Let's say I'm reconsidering their cases. But the scaffhold's no place for civil conversation, we'll talk at my home. Your friends are free for the time being, just they're not to leave town. We clear on that?"

Geralt snorted. "Clear."

Loredo nodded. "Come after dusk. I'll be busy until then." He began to leave down the stairs, but turned at the last moment. "There's one more thing…welcome to Flotsam, witcher."

Watching the crowd and any soldiers still nearby turn and walk from the gallows, Geralt stepped down and approached Roche, Triss and his other companions once more. Whatever this Loredo wanted, the witcher knew that he wanted something that only he – a witcher – could provide or accomplish.

There was no other reason Geralt could fathom why Loredo had stopped the hanging. Indeed, Loredo didn't seem like a sentimental man, and perhaps that was for the best. Geralt could deal with business characters, since their agendas were always made clear.

/***\

"Geralt," called Dandelion. "I wanted your opinion on this before adding it to my grand collection."

"Your collection is grand now?"

Dandelion scoffed. "Well, someone has to write up your history, and no one knows it better than your humble scribe who stands before you."

He winked as he passed the parchment piece to Geralt, and slipped away to return to Zoltan and his pint of ale. Shaking his head, Geralt settled onto a nearby stool.

Unfolding the parchment, expecting a riveting passage about one of his companions, likely Dandelion himself, Geralt felt his lips part and eyes narrow at the written passage before him.

Honour prevented the proud youth from fleeing his family seat while it was in enemy hands. Aryan made a decision that meant certain death for himself, but he nevertheless made it without hesitation, sealing with his sacrifice the bloodiest chapter ever in La Valette family annals.

Geralt felt the note crumble in his hands. He snorted, and after a moment levelled himself to his feet. He walked over to Dandelion and threw the crushed parchment to settle beside his pint.

"It's fine, Dandelion," he murmured lightly, waving him off. "Add it to your collection, whatever you will with it. I need to check something."

Geralt drank the last remaining mouthfuls of his pint, practically gulping it down in a single swallow, before wiping away the excessive larger on his lips. He slammed it down, ignored Zoltan's laughter and Dandelion's questionative gaze, and turned to walk outside.

"There's nothing I should add?" called Dandelion, frowning, as Geralt reached the door. "Nothing the baron's heir said or did in his final moments of life?"

"No…there's nothing," he grated, and swept from the room.

Geralt considered momentarily that he was doing an awful lot of running away from personal matters lately, but then shook the thought from his mind. He needed to attain a new silver sword, and recalling the dead wouldn't help matters now in the slightest.

Besides, that moment between them in the La Vallettes' prison had been just that – only a moment, a futile kiss from a man who had been determined to die.

With this in mind, Geralt set out to find a local blacksmith to craft him up a new sword. After which, he intended on doing a rather lot of necker-killing, since the post on the Inn's outside board wasn't about to fulfil itself.

/***\

That night, Geralt of Rivia infiltrated Loredo's backyard in an attempt to overhear a conversation between Sile and Loredo in his hut. Sile arguments against the Commandant, if nothing else, had convinced Geralt of Loredo's deception over the people of Flotsam, concentrating more soldiers' patrols on ensuring his own dealings with merchants were continued than focusing on Flotsam's peoples' safety and goods.

Whilst finding an iron frame that could ensure the building of a workable Kayran trap, Geralt then clambered down a wooden scaffolding and returned to Roche.

The Special Forces' Officer stood awaiting him beside the stairway to Loredo's hut, and together they ventured up the stairway.

"Sorry, sire," said the man guarding the doorway, "Commandant instructed that only the Witcher is to be allowed to enter inside."

"That son of a bitch," muttered Roche, his palms rubbing together irritably. "Fine, if he wants to play this the hard way…"

"Easy, Vernon," urged Geralt, wearily eying the Officer's movements. "I'll be right back out."

"Yes, and

Geralt passed Sile on her way out. She wouldn't provide him any information, and the look she cast behind her – down the corridor, and evidently in Loredo's direction – struck Geralt as truly venomous. As he ventured down the corridor and entered the room Loredo had hold himself up within, he couldn't help but thoughtfully agree.

"I heard what happened in Tameria, but nothing that should impede in on our dealings," he muttered, with an indolent shrug. "You see, I'm the law around here, and the law needs to know why a witcher – and Geralt of Rivia of all bloody ones – comes prowling into my territory."

Geralt scowled and crossed his arms. He wasn't about to ask Loredo after the kingslayer, since the man likely knew about as much as himself, if not less, than Geralt. No, Ioverth likely could lead the witcher to the kingslayer.

The only problem seemed that Ioverth wouldn't talk to anyone who wasn't, if not a Squirrel, at least trustworthy enough, and Geralt knew of no way to gain their trust currently.

In any case, Geralt knew Loredo couldn't help him in gaining this information.

"What I want is none of your concern," Geralt replied nonchalantly.

"Listen, witcher – here in Flostam, everything is my ploughing concern," seethed Loredo. Let me help you Geralt.

Geralt unfolded his arms. "I do all right on my own."

Loredo waved him carelessly off. "I suppose we all have our secrets," he murmured. "I just hope you'll think of Flotsam when you go scrounging around for whatever it is that's led you here."

"What about Vernon Roche? What didn't you let him in?"

"Roche? Men like that act without thinking, and when they do act, things tend to collapse in a flow," he grated. "I trust you're on our side, eh witcher?"

"Oh, and whose side is that?"

"That of the people of Flotsam of course. I won't see this town in flames because of those bandits like Ioverth, who lay in wait outside our walls, or some arse-pompous Officers like Vernon Roche."

Now Geralt agreed partially on that Vernon Roche acted like a pompous arsehole sometimes, but he had to take offence about calling all of the Scoia'taels bandits when Loredo's own dealings were sinking the town people's economy.

"There was a time those forests belonged to the elves, you know," he informed Loredo, without hiding the disdain in his voice. "To them, humans are bandits."

"Ah, spare me your sympathies! The elder language, the elder races – plough it all! Today, they torch stalls and murder women and children, and you tell me if you understand why?"

"It's you who doesn't understand, Loredo. To tell you the truth, I'm not human."

"You an elf? A stinking dwarf, aye? No…you're talking bollocks, witcher. You're a human, just like the rest of us, damn it," he ranted, beginning to pace about the floor. "I piss on the fact that they call you a freak, witcher. We're fighting a war here, and you, my friend, cannot sit on a ruddy fence."

"What about the elves and dwarves in the trading posts – the smiths, the peddlers? Those who eat and shit among you, who side do you think they're on?"

"Hell if I know," he spat. "The nonhumans in Flotsam, sure they eat, shit, fuck amongst us, but when Ioverth comes, who knows what they'll do."

Geralt snorted. "Ioverth talks about running off d'hone, that the elder races are superior. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the poorer folk here secretly support him."

"Right you are. As long as Ioverth remains weak, people are afraid to join him. But if he gains in power and numbers…well, woe to Flotsam is what I say. But you're a witcher, Geralt," he remarked, pointing a finger in Geralt's direction. "You're job is to protect the simpletons from the monsters. I protect them from the danger that lurks among the trees."

Geralt shook his had disbelief.

"You detest nonhumans," he rebuked heatedly.

"I detest Ioverth, the coward who hunts the innocent instead of facing soldiers. I detest that whoreson who murders women and children and then claims to be fighting for their freedom." Loredo stepped forward, and angrily poked a finger into Geralt's chest. "I am protecting this town from him. I am the one protecting these citizens from that monster!"

"Enough of your ranting, Loredo. I get it."

"Look, I don't want you to kill him. Even you don't have a hope against his entire force. I've an idea, but I'd rather not go into it right now," he said. "The Squirrels are up to something. Every night their scouts come closer, and I reckon their planning something for the barge."

"What's on the barge?"

Loredo smirked. "You mean who? Murderers, rapists, and the like, all on their way to the Drakenboard, just as soon as –"

"Their infamous leader joins them," finished Geralt, eying the man tirelessly. "Ioverth the cherry on the cake and Loredo's crowning trophy."

"Couldn't have put it better myself," he snickered. "Still, as long as Ioverth remains free, humans, elves and dwarves will live alongside one another in Flotsam in deep distrust, so I've got to learn what that pointy-eared rat is planning."

"And just how am I supposed to get this information?"

"Ha! You underestimate me, witcher. I know a lot about what goes on around in my town," he assured. "Take your friend, Zoltan, for instance – he contacted Ioverth."

Geralt's pale eyebrows perked up at this news.

"How can Zoltan contact Ioverth if he's been contained within Flotsam's walls?" he asked.

"Step by step, Geralt. That's how you build trust," he remarked pointedly. "You could start by taking care of that kayran. I'm losing tolls…err, that is, Flotsam is losing revenue. Anyway, kill the kayran and I'll declare your friends acquitted from their crimes. Then Zoltan can take you to see Ioverth."

Geralt shook his head. Loredo had turned to bribery to earn the witcher's aid, and Geralt was done.

"I came and heard you out. Now I've heard enough."

In spite of the deal sounding welcoming to his ears, since his intentions were to kill the kayran anyway, Geralt had no doubt that his next task would be to somehow slay Ioverth for Loredo – and the witcher's code stayed him from political disputes of any races' affairs.

"You're refusing my aid, then?" muttered Loredo, an eyebrow perked in disbelief.

Geralt nodded stubbornly, and turned halfway for the door.

"You're vile, Loredo. I hope you and Ioverth pit against each one day, like rats you'll fight over which can have the cheese."

Loredo's eyes narrowed, so much so that they became beady lines.

"You'll regret those words, witcher. I promise you that," he seethed, before pointing to the doorway. "Now get outta my sight!"

Geralt vacated the premises, all too glad to see the back of Loredo. Whatever their conversation had concluded as, Geralt knew that their meeting wouldn't be the last he'd see of Bernard Loredo.


	3. Letho's Betrayal

**Warnings**: Please be aware that this fan-fiction will contain profanities, mild sexual content, many bloody battles, character deaths, and an overly obsessive usage of semi-colons and 'big' words.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Witcher series. This piece of fiction is being written for merely entertainment purposes.

Rated: **T**

A/N: I've mildly realised that my writing style for this little story has taken on a poetic, Dandelion air. 'Changing winds' and 'the witcher' – ha! I'm amusing myself here writing this, but still, I believe this style works, since I am literally rewriting his history. Anyway, there'll be more of Ioverth and Geralt to come in the following chapter.

_Summary:__ Geralt has been suffering from the memory of Aryan La Valette's death. He ponders mostly on why the La Valette heir had kissed him? But as the Witcher stumbles across Flotsam and meets the Squirrels' leader, he realises that sometimes the past doesn't need to be remembered – it's the future that counts…_

**The Dungeons of La Vallettes**

**Chapter Three: Letho's Betrayal**

Ciaran's words rang through the witcher's ears.

"Warn Ioverth, Geralt," Ciaran had murmured, whilst lying wounded on the cell's floor. "Warn him of Letho's treachery, and may that dh'oine rot."

Ioverth's Second-in-Command, delusional from the searing pain and Triss' swift healing sorcery, made Geralt unsure if he could trust the elf's words. But as the witcher journeyed through the forest with his dwarven companion, Zoltan, to fid the Scoia'tael leader, having delivered a flower of remembrance to Triss in the hope that his memories could be recovered, he grew ever more apprehensive about finally solving the mystery behind Letho's character.

Triss' forlorn expression from being left behind as Geralt had travelled to the elven ruins was perhaps understandable, as the witcher in the past had heavily relied upon her sorcery in almost all matters. Yet changing winds had settled in; the witcher's mind had been tasked since his arrival to Flotsam, and any distraction from the objective of gaining his memories back, even one so beloved as his Triss Merigold, seemed unimportant.

Nevertheless, as another nekker fell before his silver sword, Geralt felt in his element. Only, when he looked up from the bleeding corpse, he heard the creaking of a notched arrow in the distance, footsteps on branches, and panting breaths. His muscles instantly tensed.

"This is where he were supposed to meet," grumbled Zoltan, moving to approach him. They had split up during the fight, but had tried to remain in the clearing. "Wonder where the pointy-ears are…"

"I know," replied Geralt idly. "There are arrows trained on us."

"What the –" burst Zoltan, turning swiftly in vain around to search. "Geralt, I know you're always vigilant, but quite pocking fun at me."

"Give them the password, Zoltan."

"What 'them'," the dwarf seethed under his breath.

Geralt turned his narrowed eyes onto the dwarf. He had hoped that others learned of his abilities and trusted him. Evidently, Zoltan imagined that the witcher felt in a humorous mood now.

"Just hurry up," Geralt muttered irritably, whilst keeping a steady hand on his sheathed sword in case the situation turned. "They edgy."

"Aye, fine," he grumbled. "Kier-ka-gard!"

For a moment, all remained silent. Then the bushes rustled, and two elves pushed through the brambles of roots and branches to approach them.

"Stop bawling," sneered the dark-haired elf, whose narrowed eyes flickered from the dwarf and wearily onto the witcher. He folded his arms and asked petulantly, "What do you want?"

"Take us to Ioverth," replied Zoltan.

"Why?" he asked.

"If we had wanted to speak with you, we wouldn't have asked to see your leader," Geralt answered stoically.

"Ioverth won't talk with you," snapped the elf.

"You don't know that," replied Geralt.

"Leave while you're still able."

Zoltan snorted, and folded his arms in defiance.

"The two of you won't scare us off."

The second elf standing nearby said nothing, but Geralt remained aware of his presence. His strutting posture suggested that he held a knife either on his waist or somewhere latched onto his legs, and the witcher wasn't about to take chances.

"There are four more in that tree," Geralt informed, casting his eyes from the silent elf onto the black-haired one before him. "Each of them has an arrows notched, but only two have melee weapons."

The elf's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do you know?"

"I could hear them breathing and fidgeting on the branches. One's sick with fisstech or some other drug akin to that."

"How?"

"He's wheezing," answered Geralt simply.

Zoltan snorted. "What, you elven cocks gone soft now? Needing narcotics to get by now, are you?"

Geralt shook his head, ignoring Zoltan's remark, for he imagined that baiting the elves wouldn't likely get them any closer to their original goal.

"We just want to talk to Ioverth," Geralt repeated.

The elf sighed, and ran a hand through his plaited locks.

"Wait at the clearing," he finally conceded, with a wave off his hand to indicate that they should leave – and quickly. "The dwarf can show you where I speak of, witcher."

"I know where 'tis," murmured Zoltan, turning from them. "Come on, Geralt."

Geralt followed his companion for some minutes. Although Zoltan seemed eager to leave the elves, an irritated scowl adorned his face and Geralt hesitated to ask until they were clear from being overheard.

"Zoltan," he asked, "where is the clearing? What was their intent in sending us there?"

"It's just up ahead, and they're sending us into a ruddy trap, that's what they're intending, Geralt," he grated, with his eyes glaring on ahead of them. "I don't know what their game is, but we're here now – and the creature – a bloody arachas – that prowls around here is down there."

Peering over the ledge of a small mount that he and Zoltan had arrived to stand upon, Geralt spotted the arachas with some ease. An insect-type creature, with pincers and skeletal legs to boot, red-scaled, and as large and venomous as creatures could come, Geralt knew he'd in for a truly bloody fight.

Geralt folded his arms. "Right where we're supposed to meet Ioverth," he murmured stiffly.

"Exactly. Any ideas?"

He snorted. "I last fought an arachas some time ago. My mind is…dry of ideas."

"Well, I've never had the swiving pleasure at fighting 'em," said Zoltan. "Not that I mind, o' course."

Geralt chuckled. "Wait here, Zoltan…"

Zoltan scowled, and turned to wave a fist. "What are you…think me a limp prick?" he yelled after him.

Geralt ignored his friend's complaints and made haste downwards into the clearing. He'd consumed a number of potions since their departure from Flotsam, and though his stock was admittedly low since rising that morning, he hoped that he had enough on his person to aid him during the battle.

His mind swiftly ran over any information in his mind on arachases, but anything prior to his life since meeting Triss dulled when he attempted to recollect the knowledge. Perhaps if he'd known that on this very night he would be facing an arachas the witcher could have read up on such beasts, but now was not the time for contemplating wishful thoughts.

/***\

The battle was hard, and the arachas had struck him across the leg. Yet the wound seemed insignificant when a herd of Squirrels landed from trees around them, with bows trained on the witcher. Geralt knew his movements were being watched then.

From the shadows of trees emerged Ioverth, masked by the same red silken fabric that had adorned his face on their arrival. The witcher idly wondered how far the scar ran, whether it ventured even into the elf's hairline or stopped at his cheekbone.

"A lovely show, Gwynbliedd," greeted Ioverth, though an ironic tone laced his words as he approached them. "But tell me, was it worth it? An uneven fight, and certain death await you anyway."

"I could ask you the same thing," retorted Geralt.

Ioverth sighed. "What do you want, vatt'ghern? Speak quickly, before I kill you both."

"Letho betrayed you, Ioverth," he replied, turning his eyes from the fixed arrows. "He wanted to make a deal with your comrade, Ciaran."

"Ciaran aep Easnillen is dead. Two weeks ago his warriors were ambushed and killed," snarled the elf, casting his eyes from Geralt momentarily to his archers. "You should invent better lies, Gwynbliedd."

"He's on the barge. Wounded, but alive. He turned Letho down, and his unit paid the ultimate price."

"If you speak the truth," seethed Ioverth, with clenched fists by his sides, "…Letho will die. But words alone are not enough."

Raising his hand, Ioverth's arches bowed their bows to their sides. Whilst Zoltan watched them with unease in his eyes, Geralt simply kept his gaze fixed on their leader.

"What's your angle, Ioverth?" he asked.

The elven leader grimaced. "You wouldn't understand."

"Hiding in the woods, killing berry-pickers, eating roots…"

"We live by our own rules, doing what's necessary to attain our goal."

Geralt shrugged. "What is your goal, then?"

"What's it to you, Geralt? Just like when you denounced my words as drivel when we first encountered one another, you'd likely tell me even now to stuff it up my arse."

The witcher snickered at the corner of his lips.

"Not everything deserves that fate," he murmured lightly. "But my life as it stands here depends upon your whim, so I'm curious."

That bout of honesty, Geralt's small acknowledgement of their lives being in the Scoia'tael's hands, for some odd reason peeked the elf's interests. Appearing to consider whether to divulge information, the elven leader smirked.

"Then listen well, dh'oine," Ioverth remarked. "The two dead kings were whoresons who'd damn their own children to stay in power, but in the east there's someone truly deserving of a crown."

Geralt scowled. "You attack and murder the people of Flotsam, forgetting that elves and dwarves live among them. How can your opinion of who is more deserving of a crown count when you slaughter your own kind?"

"Flotsam is no life!" Ioverth growled, throwing a hand up in indignation. "They've been stripped of self-respect, forced to live and die by human laws. They're more dh'oine than you, witcher."

"Perhaps," said Geralt. "Yet even your hired assassin turned out traitor. You'll have to face the truth at some point, Ioverth, lest your fate end up similar to Ciaran's now on the barge."

Ioverth stepped forward. "It's Letho's word against yours, Geralt," he seethed.

"For now. But why do you trust him?" asked Geralt, watching with an irritated, yet intrigued, gaze. "Because he's a dh'oine who agreed to do shady work for you?"

"He did what had to be done. He proved nobody's untouchable."

Geralt snorted. "So you still trust this assassin?"

"You may be lying –"

"If I am lying," sneered Geralt, cutting him sharply off, "…so did Ciaran."

Ioverth stood firm, however. Neither a waver nor a blink scorned his expression, and Geralt watched him carefully, but Ioverth's lips merely curled to reply.

"We'll investigate it for his sake," he said. "We shall see how Letho reacts to your sensational news as well."

Geralt folded his arms. "Oh, and where is he?"

Ioverth's broke into a memorable, deceitful smile, despite that the mask half-covered his crinkling eyes. He turned and paced forth and back, his eyes remaining always over Geralt.

"The ruins of Caelmewedd. For some reason, he likes the place…and as do you, if our scouts are correct about your last visit not two hours ago."

"I went there alone for a flower of remembrance…for personal reasons."

Ioverth snorted. "I know, and I also have reports that you gave it to the sorceress known as Triss Merigold. But no matter your idle dalliances…my Unit will cover us now. Ready?"

"Just this: why did you want Foltest dead?"

"He might have appeared charming, but in reality he allowed Temeria's elder races to be oppressed. He was like all dh'oine, but his death simply had more significance," Ioverth answered, his eyes trained on the witcher. "So – are we to continue chatting like jittering school boys now, or would you like to have your tale confirmed before the dawn?"

Geralt nodded. "All right. We need to go."

"Indeed. But before we leave, we need a ruse – a trap, if you will," murmured Ioverth. The proud smile still having not faded from his face. "Tell Letho you've captured me and wish to hand me over."

"And you – what'll you be doing?" asked the witcher wearily.

"I'll be unarmed, hands bound. If you're not lying, his reaction will confirm it," he stated stoically. "I don't trust you, of course. My warriors will cover us. If you try anything stupid…"

"I get it," bemoaned Geralt.

"I don't think so, Geralt," Ioverth growled. He stepped forwards and leaned across the few remaining inches between them, with a warning hand palming the witcher's throat, to whisper, "…Do anything stupid and they'll tie you down on an anthill, face coated with honey. You'll scream so loud even the storm riders will hear you."

Ioverth's smirk widened as he stepped away, his one brown uncovered-eye glinting in the moonlight. A handsome fiend once, no doubt, and the act would have attracted some fear among lesser men, but the witcher merely grinned.

"Are you always so grandiose?" scorned Geralt, but humorously enough to make Ioverth huff. "We could just tell Letho to own up."

"Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde," he murmured lightly.

"Conquer with courage rather than strength?"

Ioverth's lips pursed in surprise, and he began clapping idly, as if applauding the witcher fatigued him greatly.

"Exactly," he replied, with a sweeping nod. "Let's go."

They marched on into the night, with Zoltan muttering half-curses beside him all the way. The forest seemed alive with rustles and hooting, but no arrow was neither carelessly fired nor miss-shot. There seemed no doubt that Ioverth had likely selected the most capable to act as his personal warriors, but Geralt pondered on whether they were truly loyal to their indigenous leader.

"Geralt of Rivia…what's the meaning of this?"

"I'm here to negotiate."

"Ah! Ioverth, the woodland fox, caught at last," he muttered, with a small smile. "I underestimated you, Geralt."

"I wondered what a human was doing among the Scoia'tael," murmured Geralt idly.

"'My enemy's enemy is my friend.' Know the saying?" he asked Geralt, his eyes flickering over to Ioverth. "The Scoia'tael are my brothers in vengeance."

Ioverth sneered at Geralt, baring his teeth behind scarred lips.

"Joke's over, unbind me," he seethed.

Geralt folded his arms. "Ciaran aep Easnillen told me you want to eliminate Ioverth," he informed.

"Even if I do, why would you help me?"

"Bloede dh'oine," cursed Ioverth, his eyes fixed on Letho.

"Demavend, Foltest…who else? Who the hell are you?"

"We've met, Geralt. Do you remember?"

"No…"

"I'll never forget it. You saved my life, White Wolf," he murmured, with his dark eyes momentarily cast down before raising them. The unknown witcher lips' twitched, "We fought side by side, now we'll cross blades. This wouldn't be necessary if I'd killed Ioverth first."

Ioverth snarled, "Serrit and Auckes will drown in their own blood."

"Oh, I don't think so. My men will finish their task long before the Scoia'tael in the Pontar Valley realise you're dead."

"Serrit and Auckes – who are they?"

"Kingslayers the Scoia'tael are helping in the Pontar Valley, in Upper Aedirn," informed Ioverth, his eyes straying from Letho. "They're…useful."

"You killed Foltest, you'll answer for that," seethed Geralt.

Letho shrugged. "You're the only one who saw it happen. You'll do the answering," he rebuked.

"I don't see any other way to do this. Draw your sword…"

Ioverth struggled against his bonds.

"Enough of this farce," he sneered. "Vedria! Enn'le!"

His warriors moved in, with their bows sharply trained on Letho, who responded by unsheathing his sword and wielding it threateningly with both hands. His muscular build would have frightened lesser men, only now he faced another witcher.

Letho scowled at the white-haired witcher.

"What game are you playing?"

"One that you just lost," Geralt growled.

Geralt unsheathed his silver sword from his back, for witchers were not wholly human. He knew only about witchers, though, and could not recall this witcher standing before him from his own past.

Still, in the rustling of the trees and over the breathing of the Squirrels, he could hear someone else. His eyes flickered between the trees and he spotted Roche's hand wave; and instantly, bolts strewn through the trees caught two of Ioverth's warriors deep into their chests.

Blue-striped soldiers pounded over roots onto the scene, and Geralt cursed angrily.

"Give me my sword," hissed Ioverth.

Ioverth had managed to unlace the bonds, but he remained unarmed, and gritting his teeth at Roche's intrusion, Geralt passed him his sword without a second thought to the consequences. Ioverth knew of Letho's betrayal now; and with his Squirrels dying in droves, there seemed a decreasing chance of the leader betraying the witcher now.

But the Scoia'tael leader, sighting Vernon Roche seemingly after harrowing down one of his soldiers, ran at him, screaming in anger. Their swords parried and struck, and as Letho charged at Geralt, the white-haired witcher soon lost sight of the two leader's movements.

Letho's strength far outmatched his own, regardless of the many potions that Geralt had consumed. However, with swifter abilities, the white-haired witcher continued his motions and struck hard and fast, with his blade catching Letho several times off-guard.

"I have to kill you," growled Letho.

With their blades caught between their chests, their faces were close enough to smell each other's breath. Geralt knew this witcher – knew him, but could not place him in his mind and that made him angry.

"Try it," seethed Geralt, between gnashing his teeth, "…but I'm no king,"

Letho's sword slid from his and went crashing into the ruins' grand rock formation of a woman and her lover. The stonework collapsed and together, the witchers fell through the earth, tumbling into a small, but astonishingly beautiful, spring.

Letho spat out water.

"Such pity we're on opposite sides," he sneered.

He caught Geralt by the neck and held him under the streaming water, long enough to hear him choke, before then tossing him against the wall. The force caused the brickwork to collapse and Geralt, falling through and downwards until he slammed against the checker-floor of an adjoining room, swiftly then grabbed a Swallow potion from his belt and downed it.

The white-haired shook his head, willing the taste of blood and sweat away, as he climbed to his feet. Letho appeared, with an almighty leap from the ledge above, to stand before Geralt again.

"A witcher and a few elves are enough to kill a king?" questioned Geralt, willing this unknown man to speak. "Two kings, in fact?"

"You've no idea how many people were eager to help us," spat Letho, collecting his sword from the checkerboard floor. "None, White Wolf."

Geralt brought himself to his knees, but Letho pushed him down with a swift kick to the chest. Geralt groaned – loudly – and Letho punched in the jaw, again and again until finally the white-haired witcher collapsed onto his hands and knees once more.

Sliding across the floor on his hands, Geralt leaned his head against the cool wall. He turned his eyes onto Letho, willing himself to remain conscious.

"You really think that they'll keep quiet?" he asked, before spitting blood beside him.

"Ioverth's time is running out," said Letho. He seemed content, as if his future had already passed. "The others will be judged and condemned for sowing chaos."

Geralt choked on the blood in his throat, but groaning, he pressed on questioning the strange witcher.

"So – why…"

"You were one of us, Geralt. You saved us," he growled, lowering his sword and stepping away. "Now we're even."

Geralt clenched his fists. He had expected the witcher to kill him, perhaps to drown him back up in the spring, but this unknown remembrance from his past angered him.

"You're witch is good with magic. Think she'll be able to teleport me to Aedirn?" snickered Letho. He glanced out of the window menacingly, his eyes seeming darker, despite the distant moonlight shining through. He turned back, "…And who knows, if she behaves, I won't harm her."

"I'll find you…"

"See you in Aedirn, then," he muttered.

Geralt lay in the darkness, with only the moonlight and the echoes of fighting from above to break the morbid silence. With every passing moment, his senses dulled. The potions had long worn off; he knew not where his sword lay; and with blood filling his aching throat and his eyes burning from having been held under the water, the witcher soon fell into a dark sleep.


End file.
